


Attention

by peachmoon



Category: The Walking Dead
Genre: Band, Highschool AU, M/M, Marching Band, Music, band au, i dont know how to use ao3, im dying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-08 10:52:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7754866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachmoon/pseuds/peachmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which ron anderson falls in love with a boy, who's really fucking good at tuba.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

It's 12:40 A.M.

A boy tosses over in his bed. His headphone cord tangles around his thin, frail waist. The room is shrouded in darkness, and he squints his eyes in an attempt to shield them from the blinding light of his phone screen. Trying unsuccessfully to click on a link, it finally opens after a fourth hard jab from his thumb. Tossing over again onto his back, he begins to listen.

A text message interrupts the slow crescendo of the piece. Sighing, he turns his phone on 'do not disturb', and restarts the video. This piece was important, he couldn't not listen to it with the most attention he had.

It begins with a slow rumble, starting so slowly he can barely hear it.

12:46.

'My first day of junior year starts in less than 5 hours,' he thinks to himself. His mind has already wandered from the piece's agonizingly slow crescendo. It's 16 minutes long; he has time to think.

He pulls a bony hand through his locks of curly, dirty blonde hair. 'Why can't I just sleep? Why can't I listen to this tomorrow? She always insists I do everything as soon as she says to. So impatient...'

The same note repeats over and over in a complex pattern. One, two, three, four, five. One, two three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One, two three. One, two, three.

'Jesus Christ.'

Tossing over again, he wonders what key it's in. Hopes he won't have to transpose it to something harder to play than it already is.

A steady drumroll begins. Listening to the piece, he feels as if he's slowly coming upon something magnificent. But he can't tell what it is.

'Wonder what chair I'll be this year.'

The boy turns his head over to face his desk; on it sits a dusty black box with two silver notches on it - his clarinet case. He hadn't practiced all summer. He knew he'd get bitched at for it, but he figured it was too late by now.

Beautiful chords are blooming from the piece in a nice blend of brass and string instruments. He can't pick out any woodwinds yet. Might just be his shitty ear.

This would be his third year in his high school band, and his fifth overall. He was dragged into it in middle school by his best friend Mikey, a goofy kid and amateur tubist. They'd both somehow managed to stick with the same instruments for all that time.

The piece erupts into erratic patterns of series of notes, all seemingly random, but he knows all too well that to whoever composed it, each passage was incredibly thought out and calculated. He was always amazed by composers. 'Another thing I couldn't ever do,' he thinks to himself.

One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three. One, two, three.

'Wonder if we'll only have one tuba. Our strongest one graduated... Does that mean Mikey will be left with first chair? Oh god, poor Mikey.'

The piece only gets louder and louder. One, two, three, four, five. He doesn't know it, but his heart is racing.

'And of course Enid has been at it all summer. She'll be section leader again, no doubt. Unless some prodigy freshman comes and takes it from right under her. That'd be hilarious.'

Without noticing, his feet are twitching to the rhythm. Left, right, left, right, left. Right, left, right, left, right.

Cymbals are crashing, bass drums are booming, brass is blasting and the strings and woodwinds are shrieking their passages of erratic and discordant melodies. The entire piece has gradually arrived into a storm of chaos. The dissonance would be terrible if it weren't for the same steady note playing over and over at the base of everything else. He tugs on his dirty blond hair with both hands. He feels as if the sky is falling around him. And yet, he still feels as if he has come upon something magnificent.

'This is what music is for,' he thinks to himself. 'To describe something magnificent that can't be described with words.'

'...God, I'm pretentious.'

Seconds later, the piece decrescendos, and falls back into a much quieter version of itself; as if Ron Anderson were standing right in front of its chaotic climax before he flies away just to hear its crashing from a distance. The dust settles. He is left staring at his ceiling in silence.

1:02.

After a couple seconds, Ron picks up his phone again, squinting at the bright white screen and opening his messages. Enid has been incessantly texting him, begging him to tell her what he thought of the piece. Eyes half shut, he begins to type.

'enid.'

\- 'ron?'

'how the fuck are we going to march to this???'


	2. 2

Ron Anderson never found himself one to listen to classical music.

I mean, sure, he thought it was good. But he always had a preference for things like alternative rock, or indie artists. He'd always tell Enid, an avid listener of orchestral music, that he 'just liked newer stuff,' to which she replied, 'People are still composing classical music to this day,' and he kind of just gave up talking after that.

Which is why he wonders why he's been listening to the same piece Enid forced him to hear only hours ago on repeat the whole morning. Ron stands outside his house in the dark of the early morning with one headphone in, waiting for the bus. He's wearing a hoodie through the Virginia heat, and jeans and black converse. The bus rolls in and comes to a stop, and Ron hops on and makes his way to the first empty seat he can find.

He'd never been too serious about band in middle school. Found it as more of a free period and field trip opportunities. But what really got him to appreciate it was his first marching season. Freshman year, Mikey yet again dragged him into it and he figured there wasn't a reason why he shouldn't do it. That was where they both met Enid, who'd played the french horn since she was a young kid and was incredibly serious about marching. Ron always admired how dedicated Enid was to music - him and Mikey learned well into freshman year that she'd always turn down hanging out to stay after school and practice, and so for the three of them, practicing after school had to become their sad, dorky band-kid version of 'hanging out'. Of course, eventually Enid was the only one left playing actual pieces, while Ron and Mikey ran around the auditorium, or neglected their competition and marching pieces to blare the peptunes they'd play at pep rallies or football games.

Ron found a sense of completion in marching band. The long hours of practice in the sweltering heat made him doubt that he'd ever get through a season without quitting - but each year he did, and this would be the third year that he did again.

Ron was pulled out of the trance of his thoughts by the chatter and noise of the entire busload of kids debarking and making their way into the highschool. He groggily slung his bag over his shoulder and took his clarinet case in his other hand, making his way through the rows of seats and off the bus.

The sky was an off-putting shade of dark blue, and the school was lit by even more unpleasant yellowish lights. Ron pulled his phone out of his pocket as he made his way into the courtyard. It would be a while before the bell rang, so he figured he'd make his way to the band room and drop his instrument off in his locker. Enid and Mikey would probably find him in there, and then they could-

"Shit!"

Before he could process what happened, Ron was on his ass on the concrete. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his eye with the base of his palm, waiting for his vision to focus. He'd dropped his case and it toppled over next to him. Ron's stomach lurched thinking about what damage might have befallen the poor instrument inside. He couldn't tell what had happened to make him fall over, until he looked up and saw a figure standing over him.

The boy looked a little shorter than Ron, but he was stocky and muscular. He had long brown hair that fell in layers to just above his shoulders. He wore blue jeans and flannel over a tshirt, and held an arm out to Ron to help him up - but his face was stoic and expressionless, and Ron couldn't tell if he looked shocked at what had happened or ready to beat the shit out of him. He figured this is who he'd bumped into while lost in his thoughts.

Ron took the hand wearily, and was pulled up onto his feet so quickly he almost toppled forward.

"You okay?" The boy asked him in a deep voice. Ron looked into his eyes with a bit of a loss for words. The boy's eyes were icy blue and penetrating. Ron was thoroughly intimidated, and looking into the shorter boy's eyes made him feel like he was gonna get the shit beaten out of him just a little bit more. He still hadn't let go of his hand.

Ron swallowed. "...Y-Yeah," he stuttered, closing his mouth. He'd just noticed that his jaw was hanging open. 'I probably look like such an idiot right now,' he thought to himself.

The blue-eyed boy slowly let go of his firm grip on Ron's hand. His gaze left Ron's eyes and drifted to a spot on the floor behind him.

"Is that yours?"

'Shit,' Ron thought. 'My instrument.' He'd just remembered to pick it up. "Yeah." He said again, bending down to pick up the case as the other boy watched. He felt his entire face heat up. 'God, I'm so out of it today.'

Standing back up, Ron's eyes met the other boy's again. His stomach rolled over. Why was he so nervous? He was a 16 year old kid, a junior for god's sake, and it's not like he'd never fallen on his ass and embarrassed the shit out of himself before. But before he could even process it, he slung his bag over his right shoulder again and took off.

'What the fuck is my deal?'

-

"Do you think it's broken?"

Mikey and Ron sat in front of each other at their lunch table. The noise of the cafeteria had always been something that irritated Ron to no end, so him and his friends usually sat in one of the tables outside. The two looked into Ron's open clarinet case as they ate their lunch. Ron took the lower joint in his hands and turned it around, looking for a loose screw or piece of bent metal.

"It looks fine, but I won't know until I play it. God, I'm such an idiot."

"Who's an idiot? Ron? You didn't have to tell us twice." Enid set her tray down on the table and sat down with a smirk. Her hair was pulled up into a messy, bumpy ponytail, and she wore a thin sweater over a t-shirt and jeans. She took the piece of his clarinet Ron had in his hands from him with no warning and began to examine it as he had. "Did you break this? Ron, what did you do?" She asked, putting one piece of the clarinet back inside the case and simultaneously taking out another. Each time she put a piece back it was in the wrong place.

"Don't touch it. I don't know if I broke it, I dropped the case this morning," he retorted with an exasperated sigh. Enid's shenanigans were not something he was in the mood to deal with today.

"How do you just drop a case?"

"Leave it, okay? Some kid shoved into me."

"What an ass. But why are you so worried, anyway? Are woodwinds really that delicate?"

"Shut up Enid. I could bend your instrument if I wanted to."

"No you couldn't," they both said in unison.

Ron sighed. They were right, he was a human spaghetti noodle. That kid from earlier probably could've killed him if he was angry. Or any angrier than he might have been, if Ron could tell if he was angry. Oh well, it was a big school - he'd probably never see him again. Today was a shit day, but his last period was his band class, and as long as he wouldn't have to go home knowing he'd have to pay a hundred bucks to repair his instrument, it would probably make him feel a lot better about everything.

Right?


	3. 3

Wrong.

The advanced band class had most of the same people as ever, just missing last year's seniors and adding in a couple sophomores or freshmen that made the cut. The first class of the year was usually spent assigning people their school-rented instruments, and if there was time left, some seating challenges - an assessment in which everyone in each instrument section played their scales, and were arranged from best to worst by their seats, first chair being the best, etc. Their band director, Mr. Kepler, was a stern, sarcastic middle-aged man and long time hornist. He had black thin-rimmed glasses and often wore his hair in a low ponytail.

Kepler called the students who didn't have an instrument yet to his desk to begin assigning them. He dismissed the rest of the class, saying they could sit wherever they want or, preferably, go into a room to practice. Ron took the opportunity to go with Enid into one of the small practice rooms and check the functionality of his instrument; meanwhile, Mikey made his way to Kepler's desk.

Ron sat down inside the practice room with a sigh. Placing his case on his lap, he opened it and began putting the clarinet together. "Close the door, if it squeaks everyone will hear it." He said to Enid.

"Don't look so down about it. You dropped it in its case, if you keep acting like it's broken already you'll just jinx it," she said, pulling her french horn out of her case. Brass instruments were commonly put in their cases in one piece - woodwinds were taken apart. Enid popped her mouthpiece into her horn and began expertly playing her scales. In all honesty, being around her made Ron feel like a bad musician.

He finished putting the instrument together, and with a sigh, he brought it to his mouth. "Here goes."

He played a strong tuning B flat successfully. No squeaks, no delays. Good sign. He looked to Enid with a giddy, goofy smile. Enid laughed. 

"Okay, now scales."

"Shut up, Enid." He played one or two scales at a much slower pace than Enid would, looking to her excitedly after each one.

"Shit, it sounds like, better now. What the fuck did you do? Was that guy who shoved you radioactive?"

Ron laughed.

-

Ron and Enid's celebrating and unorganized playing was interrupted by a pound on the door. Enid opened it to Mikey, who was too busy heaving a tuba over his shoulder to knock with his hands. "Kepler's done, he wants everyone to go sit with their sections," he said with a slight strain in his voice.

"Scales time!" Enid exclaimed, running out the door. She sure looked ready. Ron was not. He shut his case without packing his instrument away and made his way to his section. There was a shortage of clarinets in his band, and he was once again left being one of four clarinetists. If he did end up anywhere near first chair, it would be because all the other people in his section were desperately incompetent. But as much as it would suck to have to deal with an incompetent section, he'd never been first chair before, and somewhere a small part of him longed for that responsibility.

Ron sat third in his section, to the right of a sophomore with dyed hair and the left of a very short freshman with hipster glasses. 'God, let me move. Please let me move.'

Mr. Kepler moved nonchalantly to a stool in the front and center of the band. He raised his music stand up to the height of the stool and put his baton on it. "We'll start with the horns."

Ron could see Enid perk up from his seat. She'd already sat in the first chair, as if to claim what's already hers. She uncrossed her legs and got into position, taking several deep breaths before she began to play.

Her entire section payed close attention to her scales, but most of the band began shuffling around with boredom. She played quickly, but with excellent tone and finesse and-

'Oh, god.

It's him.'

One of the double doors of the band room cracked open slowly, and out from behind it peeked no one but the kid who Ron swore was gonna beat the shit out of him this morning. Ron's stomach lurched. 'Why is he here?! Why would he come in here? Is he here for another teacher? Please don't play anything. Oh god, please don't play anything.'

The boy stepped into the room agonizingly slowly, as if debating whether to run in the opposite direction, or kill somebody, or something. Finally, he let the door click shut as softly as he could, but the noise was heard by everyone, and the whole band including Kepler whipped their heads around to see - except Enid, apparently, who just kept playing her scales like nobody's business. 'God, how many does she know?'

"Can I help you?" Kepler asked.

"This is the band room." The boy spoke.

"...Yes?" Kepler replied. Was that supposed to be a question?

"Okay. I just transferred, I - I got lost," the boy explained without a quiver in his expression.

"What's your name? This is advanced wind ensemble, is this your class?"

"Carl Grimes..." the boy said, looking down at the crumpled paper he held, presumably his schedule. "And, yeah."

'Carl. His name is Carl. That's a bully name, isn't it? Oh god, that's totally a bully name.'

"Alright, Carl... and what do you play?"

'Oh, no.'

"Tuba," he said. "Five years."

'No.'

Ron looked over to Mikey, all the way in the back row. His face lit up. 'No, Mikey, that's bad! He'll kill you! With the tuba!' Ron looked back frantically at Carl, only to see that Carl was making direct eye contact with him. Ron's stomach lurched, and Carl's eyes darted back to Kepler.

"Okay, okay, Enid. That's enough. You don't need to play your minor scales for a seating test. You win. First chair, whatever." Kepler waved his hand at Enid as if trying to shoo her away.

"Yes!" Enid shouted. The kid next to her looked ready to kill someone. Ron heard Kepler mutter 'overachiever' under his breath.

"You mind playing for us, Carl? You have a mouthpiece, right? Just grab a tuba from the storage closet, I'd like to hear you." Kepler said. Carl made his way into the storage closet. Meanwhile, Mikey went out of his way to put his tuba down and place another chair to his left for Carl to sit in. Poor Mikey, still wants to be first chair. 'Please don't hurt Mikey. His poor, fragile tuba heart... He's innocent, almost.'

Carl returned from the storage closet with the tuba slung over his shoulder. He carried it over to the seat Mikey gave him with ease, not seeming to strain himself at all. He really had played a long time. Ron found himself analyzing the curve of his biceps. 'The muscles he's gonna deck me in the face with,' he thought to himself.

Carl swiftly sat down and placed the tuba upright in between his legs. "What grade are you in?" Kepler asked.

"Eleventh," he replied as he popped the mouthpiece into the tuba. With no hesitation, he took a breath that was audible from all the way across the risers where Ron sat, and blared one of the strongest, cleanest tuba sounds he'd heard. It rang and resonated inside the spacious room. As soon as he ended the note, he began his scales. They weren't as fast as Enid, but they were certainly faster than Mikey, and each note was clean and articulated. Ron glanced over to Mikey, whose face fell immediately. No more first chair.

-

"Look, Mikey. You can't beat yourself up about it."

"Yes, Ron, I can! I've been playing just as long as he has!"

"Then use your anger as fuel to crush him next scales test!" Enid exclaimed, probably too loudly.

"How? I never practice."

"Then start by taking your instrument home for once," she retorted.

"Do you really expect me to take a fucking tuba home every day? Oh yeah, I'll just hop on the bus with that shit. Oh, don't mind me, everyone, just me and my 30 pound fucking airhorn coming through."

Ron laughed. Enid rolled her eyes, but couldn't stifle her laughter.

They both said bye to Ron and left the band room. The bell had rung a bit ago - the only section that got the scales test was the horns - and Ron was taking his time packing up. He probably should get walking - a thick layer of grey clouds was seeping into the sky. Closing the notches on his case, he slung his bag over his shoulder, and left out the band room's other doors into the outside. He was about to begin his walk home when he was stopped by an unfortunately familiar voice behind him.

"Hey."

Ron's stomach flipped, and he whipped around. 'Oh, god. Here it comes.' "H-Hi," he stammered, unable to bring himself to look Carl in the eyes, despite being taller than him.

"Uhh... Sorry about this morning. You weren't looking where you were going, but like, I wasn't either, so... Is your clarinet okay?"

Ron was shocked. He didn't expect this at all. He expected to get beaten up, or pulled into a bathroom to get shanked, or killed by a deep web hitman, perhaps. Not kindness.

What the fuck.

"N-no, yeah! It's alright, it... plays good, and stuff, yeah..." Ron ran a hand through his messy hair frantically. He was blowing it. Poor kid just wanted to apologize and he'd thought he was an evil gut-punching bastard the whole day. "...Thanks."

"Yeah, it's alright." Carl paused for a minute before speaking again. "What's your name?"

"Ron Anderson," Ron said. He had stared at the floor throughout this entire conversation. He decided it was time to force himself to make eye contact - 'Fuck!' He shouted internally. Ron felt his face heat up. Carl was staring straight at him. Why was he still so nervous?!

"Cool. You're a junior, right?"

"Yeah, uh... I, um. I have to start walking home now, sooo..." He was interrupted by the patter of rain on his head. "Shit."

It started just as a small drizzle, but it quickly intensified until Ron's fluffy hair began to flatten on his head. Carl and Ron ducked back into the shelter of the band room.

"How am I supposed to walk home li-"

"Here, hold on." Carl opened his bag and pulled a small, black object out of it. "Here, can you hold this?" He handed it to Ron, and Ron took it. Upon closer examination, he noticed it was an umbrella. "Thanks," Carl said, as he promptly turned and left.

Ron was bewildered. "Wh- wh... Carl, your umbrella!" He shouted.

Carl, turning around and walking backwards, shouted back. "I don't need it! Just give it back next time you see me. Bye, Ron!"

Ron was left with possibly the strangest boy he'd ever met's umbrella in his hand. Should he  run after him and give it back? Would that be rude? Why was Carl being so nice to him? Was it a trick? Was this him being made fun of? What if he was just a new kid who wanted friends?

Nevertheless, Carl seemed to be the only thing on Ron's mind on the way home.


	4. 4

Ron was awake before his alarm rang on the next morning. The first thing he saw was Carl's small, black umbrella on his nightstand - he'd left it there so he wouldn't forget to return it the next day. Ron let the alarm keep ringing as he stared at the umbrella in half-awake contemplation. He thought about Carl, thought about when he'd get to give the umbrella back. He thought about his icy blue eyes that always made his stomach flip. That's totally normal. For someone's eyes to make your stomach do flips. 'He just makes me nervous,' he told himself. He thought about why he would give him the umbrella. Did Carl really want to be friends with him? 'What if it was a one-time thing? What if it was just out of pity for making me fall on my ass yesterday morning and once I give it back he never talks to me again? I'll still see him cause of band, but...' Ron decided not to dwell on any reason why he'd be so upset if Carl never spoke to him again. It would only lead to more confusion and making fun of himself. But as he rolled out of bed and finally shut off the incessant beeping of his alarm, all he could think about was how badly he wanted to know him.

He made a mental promise to himself not to let Carl make his stomach flip again.

Ron stumbled his way to the bathroom and began brushing his teeth. Absentmindedly, he began going over what he knew about Carl in his head. 'Carl has long brown hair and big, blue eyes. He's a little shorter than me but really strong. Nice to people he's just met. Incredible tuba. Incredible, incredible at tuba. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating. I only heard his scales. But he has a really good sound. He'd make a-'

Ron froze.

'That's it!'

-

Ron dropped his tray on the table and hastily threw his legs over the bench to sit in front of Mikey and Enid.

"We need to get Carl to march," he explained with wide eyes and urgency in his voice.

Enid's face slid into a wide-eyed smile.

"No!" Mikey shouted. "He'll steal my sousaphone thunder."

"Sousaphone thunder...?" Ron questioned.

"Yeah! I'm the sousaphone. Do you have any idea how cool it is being the one sousaphone? The whole band relies on me. And everyone stares at pep rallies cause I have a massive metal tube around my shoulders."

"And he gets to do the tuba dance at the pep rallies," Enid pointed out, talking with her mouth full. "He's great at the tuba dance."

"I don't think Carl could handle the tuba dance. He doesn't look worthy." Mikey said. Enid put her hand on her chin, contemplating.

"Come on, guys. He could do a lot for the band. And Mikey, you'll always have your sousaphone thunder." Ron assured him.

"Yeah, you're honestly better at sousaphone than regular tuba. And you can be the goofy tuba, and he'll be the serious one. Dynamic duo." Enid said, Ron nodding.

"Whatever." Mikey sulked. "You can convince him, but I'm not gonna have a part of it."

Enid's eyes lit up as she looked to Ron. He gave her a smile, and she high-fived him.

Everyone looked away from each other as the lunch bell rang. Enid sighed, getting up from the table and slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Later, dweebazoids. I have pre-cal."

Mikey rolls his eyes as he gets up, taking both his and Enid's trays to the garbage can. "Bye, Ron."

Ron was left at the table, picking up his bag and throwing out his trash, and making his way  towards one of the stairwells. He took his time making his way there, waiting for the crowds to clear up. As soon as the flood of people began to clear, he began quickly going up the stairs, before he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Ron!"

Ron's stomach flipped again. He turned around and saw none other than Carl. There goes not being letting that happen. "Yeah?" he finally asked.

"Do you know where room 202 is? I got a schedule change, I don't know-"

"I'll take you!" Ron announced, a bit too loudly. A couple heads turned. "U-Uh, I'll just bring you there."

"Won't you be late?"

"It's on my way," Ron lied. "Here, this way."

The two began walking in the opposite direction Ron had been going in. "What class is it?" Ron asked, breaking the silence that was beginning to get uncomfortable.

Carl glanced at his crumpled schedule paper. "Pre-cal," he mumbled.

"Oh, I think you have that class with Enid."

"First french horn?" He asked, looking up at Ron.

"Yeah," Ron replied. He couldn't really tell, but he thought he saw Carl's face fall.

"...She can be a little overbearing, but she's still really nice."

"Okay," Carl said.

The two entered a building with bright yellow walls, and turned into a stairway and began to climb. The silence from before ensued. Ron felt like he was forgetting something.

"Do you still have band?" He asked.

"What?"

"Like, since your schedule changed."

"Oh, yeah."

"...Nice."

Ron sighed. He got the feeling that Carl didn't want to talk. Anxiety bubbled in his stomach. 'Is it just me? He's probably not even a quiet kid, he just doesn't like me. God, why didn't I shut up sooner...'

Ron decided to push the feeling away for now; they'd reached the pre-cal classroom. The late bell had rung what felt like a while ago.

"Here we are," Ron said, noticing he sounded a bit depressed, but not bothering to change anything about his demeanor.

"Thanks, man. You okay?" Carl crumpled his schedule and stuffed it into his pocket.

"What?" Ron was thrown off for Carl's apparent care for his wellbeing once again. 'You're blowing it out of proportion,' he thought to himself, but he pushed the thought down; he'd bag on himself for wanting Carl's attention later.

"You just seem a little off," Carl replied after not getting a response.

"No yeah, I'm fi- Oh!" Ron said suddenly. He pulled his bag from over his shoulder and began rummaging through it. "Here." He said triumphantly, holding the little umbrella out to Carl with an awkward smile.

"Oh, that's right. Thanks," Carl said, flashing Ron a genuine, toothy smile. Ron couldn't help from his stomach flipping again, and he felt a lurch of embarrassment as he felt his face heat up.

Carl put the umbrella in his bag and opened the door to the classroom. "Bye, Ron." He left Ron standing outside of the classroom, his fingers shaking slightly and his face flushed.

"Bye," he muttered to himself.

Ron didn't make it to class on time that day.

-

"Dirty Dan's in my pre-cal class," Enid said. She and Mikey both took seats next to Ron as he unpacked his clarinet; he hadn't played at all that day, because the short band class was spent on more scales tests, more instrument rentals, and kids with schedule changes. Ron felt a lurch in his stomach, remembering that he'd finally have to have his scales test tomorrow.

"Dirty Dan?" He heard Mikey question.

"Yeah, and you're Pinhead."

Ron laughed. Mikey pouted.

"Why Dirty Dan, though?"

"I needed pair nicknames. I can't do Dumb and Dumber cause Carl's in pre-cal. There's only two of them, so no Three Stooges or Musketeers. It was just the first thing that came to mind," Enid explained.

"I'm first chair, no I'm first chair..." Ron mocked in alternating Spongebob and Patrick voices. Enid snorted.

Mikey rolled his eyes. "Whatever. I'm out," he said, patting both Ron and Enid's shoulders and walking out the band room's front door.

"Bye, Pinhead." Ron and Enid said in unison.

"...No, wait, I walk with you! Pinhead come back!" Enid exclaimed, running off. Ron sighed, watching his friends leave for a bit before he stood up and made his way to the band room's other doors. He stopped when he was almost shoved over by two rough hands grabbing his shoulders.

Enid panted. "I ran all the way back here to tell you that you need to get Carl to join marching band."

"What?" Ron asked, furrowing his brows. "I don't wanna, you do it."

"You want him to march just as much as I do! Come on, please?"

"No, actually, I don't. You want him to march way more."

"It's not like you're asking him out. Just tell him he should join, he could even come watch practice tomorrow so he can see what it's like."

Ron sighed. By now Enid had wrapped her arms around his neck and was bending her knees to look much shorter, just so she could look up at him with puppy-dog eyes. "Please?"

"Fine, but only cause if you do it, you'll scare him away."

"YES! Thank you, thank you, thank you-"

"Get off me."

Enid released Ron from her vice grip of a hug and promptly ran off, joining an impatient looking Mikey to walk home.

Ron was left with the anxiety-inducing realization that there was, in fact, the first marching band practice of the school year tomorrow.

Not only that, but Ron had already accepted that him walking Carl to class was to be their last interaction; if he had to tell him about marching band, they'd have to talk... again.

Ron shuddered. His stomach did a turn, and what didn't help was how during his anxiety ridden trance, Carl passed by Ron and put a hand on his shoulder for a good second as if to silently say goodbye, and walked off.

'Oh, jeez.' He thought.


	5. 5

Buzz.

"Have you talked to Carl yet?"

"Oh god, Enid it's 5 am-"

"I need to know! Come on Ron-"

"Enid, WHY are you calli- no, of course I haven't! It hasn't even been, like, a day."

"Tell him to join marching band!"

"Every time you tell me that again I become less likely to do it."

"Please, Ron, I just really need you t-"

"Goodbye, Enid."

Ron mashed the end call button a good four times with his finger before slumping over on his bed again. He sighed as he tossed over onto his back. He only had a couple minutes before his alarm would go off and he'd have to get up at this ungodly hour of the morning. 'Might as well just get a head start,' he figured, rolling out of bed, groaning dramatically as he went.

How would he tell Carl to march? Ron contemplated while he splashed his face with water. He couldn't just come up to him and yell, "Join marching band or else!" 'That's what Enid does,' he thought to himself. He chuckled at the memory of all the tiny freshmen Enid terrified out of the band program. He stopped chuckling once he realized what wonders their presence would have done for their tiny, crappy, A1-size marching band.

He figured he'd just try to strike up the conversation whenever he saw him, hoping that he'd even see him long enough to have the conversation in the first place. Ron stuffed his bag with athletic clothing and a plastic water bottle in preparation for the season's first after-school rehearsal. He winced thinking about what Enid would do to him if he couldn't convince Carl in time. Skin him, probably. Eviscerate him. She'd make him into little ham and Ron sandwiches and feed them to the band.

Ron shuddered.

-

When Ron woke up, he was in Algebra II, being nudged awake by the person next to him who was considerate enough to let him know that the bell ringing meant that both class and nap time were over. He shook his head to wake himself and groggily checked the time on his phone. Third period was going to begin in a couple minutes. He sighed, slinging his bag over his shoulder and leaving the classroom rubbing his eyes.

He was about halfway to physics when his path converged with Carl's. Carl noticed him and immediately came up to meet Ron's pace, giving him a weak, shy smile.

'He's beautiful,' Ron thought. '...What?'

Someone's shoulder knocking into Ron's roughly in the crowded hall was his cue to look in front of him instead of directly into Carl's eyes. He turned his head to the front reluctantly, blushing in embarrassment.

The two walked in silence for a bit before Carl spoke up.

"You have physics?" He asked quietly.

"What?"

"I said, you have physics?"

"Oh, yeah, room 206."

"I have it with you now cause of my schedule change."

"Oh, nice."

Ron's stomach fluttered. A whole other class with Carl? How would he ever repay the universe?

The two made their way to the door, Carl opening and holding it for him. They sat next to each other and put their bags on the floor. There were several other students in the room, but the physics teacher was off somewhere else. Ron twiddled his thumbs in anticipation, not quite knowing what he was anticipating.

He was certainly giddy, eternally grateful for this new opportunity for 'Carl time' every day. He wondered if they'd get to be lab partners. Ron got excited at the idea, bouncing one of his legs. Maybe they'd have to go to each other's houses for projects. Maybe they'd become best friends. Ron's stomach fluttered, and he frowned, stopping himself as soon as he realized how much he sounded like a little girl with a crush.

...He didn't have a crush on Carl, did he?

Ron had to stop himself from snorting. Of course not.

He did wonder if Carl had any friends, though.

"Do you know anyone at this school?" Ron asked suddenly, Carl turning his head to him.

"No," he answered shortly, pausing. Ron opened his mouth to speak before Carl continued. "I just moved here," he said, answering Ron before he could ask a question.

"Oh, cool, from where?" Ron simply asked, moving up in his chair to sit up somewhat straight.

"Georgia," Carl said. "With my dad and my stepmom and my sister."

"That's far," Ron said, regretting it immediately. 'He knows it's far. He moved from there,' he told himself.

"Yeah, but I'm getting used to things. And yeah, I don't really know anyone, but I know you, right? I mean - we're friends, right?" He asked, his expression changing to be fake serious one moment, and pulling out that insanely charming half-cocked smile of his at the word 'right', chuckling airily as he said it.

Ron froze. "Y-Yeah, of course, man. We're friends," he finally stammered, laughing nervously as he felt the pool of nervousness in his stomach bubbling. 'I am Carl's friend,' he repeated to himself. Why was this such a concept for him?

Carl smiled, fully this time, his bright blue eyes seeming to twinkle. "That's good." He said, turning forwards as the physics teacher walked in a couple minutes after the bell had rung.

The teacher droned on and on with his lecture. Ron and Carl didn't speak much after that, but Ron was okay. Really, being in Carl's presence alone made him happy. Today would be a good day. Ron tuned back into the teacher's droning just to see what was going on.

"...And if you don't have access to the online book, take a picture of the textbook. Remember, you should have the number of someone in this class by now cause we're gonna get into projects soon, and you need to communicate, and..."

Carl turned to Ron, cocking his head to the side and raising an eyebrow as if to wordlessly say, 'that means us, right? hand over the contact information.' A small smile grew on Ron's face as the two took out their phones and began creating contacts for each other. They exchanged phones to input their numbers. Ron chuckled to himself seeing his contact name - 'Ron' with a saxophone emoji.

"Why a saxophone?" Ron asked with a laugh as they returned their phones to each other.

"There's no clarinet emoji. Sax is the closest thing," Carl replied, flashing that precious smile again. Ron laughed as he blushed.

Everyone in class packed up their things in a hurry as the bell rang. "What lunch do you have?" Ron asked, standing up.

"Second," Carl replied.

"Shit, I have first."

"That's alright," Carl said. "I'll see you in band." He assured Ron. Ron smiled. The fact that Carl appeared as eager to see him as he was made him feel a way that was nice, but he didn't quite get. Warm, kind of. Special.

"I'll see you then," Ron said as Carl put his bag on to leave.

Carl smiled. "See you then."

Ron left the classroom feeling vaguely as if he'd been forgetting something.

-

"Fuck!" Ron's shouting attracted many confused glances from other lunch tables and a glare from a passing teacher.

"I can't believe you didn't tell him! You spent a whole class with him and you forgot to tell him to join marching band? God, what were you doing the whole time, making out?" Enid hit Ron lightly over the head, reprimanding him. Ron whimpered, burying his head in his arms as if he was attempting to hide himself from her.

Mikey picked at his lasagna, frowning. "Don't bully Ron."

"You can't stop me."

"Why do you want Dirty Dan to join so bad anyway? Maybe you should make out with him in physics."

Enid put her hands on Mikey's shoulders, yelling loudly into his ear. "I LIKE VAGINAAAAAAAAAAA..." Even more confused and irritated glances shot towards the 'weird band kid' table. Ron put his head in his hands.

"Get the fuck off me!" Mikey shouted, shoving Enid off of him as she laughed maniacally. "God, my ears."

"Wait, wait, wait! I just remembered I got his number! I'll text him," Ron said, eagerly pulling out his phone.

"Ooooh, Ron getting those digits." "Tell him to send nudes." Ron gave both his idiot friends an irritated look.

"Hey... I... Forgot... To... Ask you something. There," Ron said, triumphantly pressing the 'send' button and setting his phone down on the table. "You're welcome," Ron said to Enid, who was opening her mouth to probably say something bitchy when she was interrupted by the sound of Ron's phone vibrating.

"Oh shit," Ron and Enid said in unison. "That was quick." Mikey said.

Ron quickly opened his phone, reading the text out loud. "He said 'what is it?'."

Ron began typing quickly. "What are you saying?" Enid whined. Mikey shushed her.

As soon as Ron finished, he held out the phone to Mikey and Enid for their approval. It read, 'I was wondering if you wanted to join marching band. it's really fun and we think you'd be a good addition to the band. if you want you can come outside to watch us practice today, It's until 6 but its cool if u dont stay until the end.'

Mikey and Enid nodded their approval, and Ron pressed send. The three waited in silence for the next vibration, which took much longer than the last.

"Oh my God, ANSWER!" Enid suddenly yelled, banging her hands on the table. "The suspense is unbearable." Mikey said.

A few more seconds passed until...

Buzz.

"Oh shit, oh shit!" Mikey and Enid whooped and hollered and pounded the table. Once again everyone outside shot upset glances towards the three, no one seeming to notice but Ron. He unlocked his phone and held it out to them.

'Ok'

"YES!" The two shouted, throwing their hands in the air and hugging each other. Ron put his phone away.

"Are you sure, guys? He didn't sound too happy."

"No one sounds anything over text." Enid said. "The point is, he's coming. Be grateful!"

"You be grateful. It was my doing," Ron retorted.

"Okay, okay, fine. Thank you Ronnie," she said, reaching over the table to ruffle his curly hair.

Ron began to laugh along with the other two.

"Don't call me that."


	6. 6a

"He's not here."

"Yet," Enid assured Ron. "It's only like, 10 minutes after the bell. Give him time."

"That makes no sense though! We have band last period. He was just here."

"Give him time." Enid said through shut teeth. Ron's insistence was beginning to make her nervous, too.

Mikey walked past his two neurotic friends and clapped a sulking Ron on the back. "Come on man, let's go change."

"No," Ron said sternly. "I wanna be here when he gets here."

Mikey rolled his eyes. "Whatever," Enid said. "I'm gonna go get ready. When your boyfriend gets here you can show him around."

Ron scowled, hoping his blush wouldn't show up until his friends left. Mikey and Enid left out the band room's front doors snickering.

Sigh.

Ron slumped down to sit against the wall. What if Carl really wasn't coming? What if his text wasn't 'okay I'll come to marching band', but instead it was 'okay you're a fucking nut if you think all those sunburns are worth it'?

Somewhere in that dirty blonde head of his, Ron heard a voice tell him he shouldn't beat himself up about it. No. That was exactly what he was going to do, Ron decided. He was going to sit here on the floor of the band room and best himself up about it until either Carl showed up or it was too damn late and he had to go change.

...Except that was probably a bad idea, because if he really did end up being late, he'd have to run laps around the field.

Then he'd get sick. Or a headache.

Then he'd pass out.

Or worse, have to sit out of practice.

Or even worse, embarrass himself in front of Carl.

Ron began to realize just how unfit he was for marching band. Yet here he was, junior year, doing it for the third time in a row.

'Why do I do this to myself?' He wondered, whispering under his breath, "Oh jeez..."

"What's wrong?"

"Shit!" Ron yelled, jumping and clutching his chest. He stood up to meet Carl's eyes, who appeared suddenly during Ron's self-depreciative trance. "You scared me," he mumbled, brushing himself off.

"I'm sorry," Carl muttered, looking downwards to the floor. Ron almost felt as if he looked sullen.

"Are you okay?" Ron asked him.

"Yeah, yeah of course! I, um... I'm here for band. Marching band." Carl stuttered as he brushed some of his long hair out of his face.

"Oh, okay!" Ron felt himself light up. "Well, everyone's setting up their instruments, but first we should probably change, um... Do you have any athletic clothes?"

Carl shook his head.

"Shit." Ron thought for a moment. "You know what, that's alright. You can borrow mine. I have an extra pair of shorts I can use."

"Are you sure?" Carl asked, blinking adorably.

"Yeah, man, it gets hot outside. Trust me."

"But... I don't want you to get hot."

"No no no, it's okay, I'm used to it." Carl quirked an eyebrow at Ron. "Really!" Ron insisted.

"Okay..." Carl finally gave in, smiling softly. Ron thought he was making things up, but he swore he saw his face go a little red.

The two made their way towards the dressing room, which was empty except for them. Ron set his bag onto the counter in front of the mirror and took out a white t-shirt and basketball shorts. He turned around to hand them to Carl, who was shuffling around awkwardly with his bag half on. "Here," Ron said. "When everyone else is here, we all change out here, but if you'd rather change in the bathroom, you can do that, too."

Carl didn't say anything, just nodded and made his way into the bathroom within the dressing room.

Ron sighed, looking at himself in the mirror. He didn't let himself think about why he felt vaguely disappointed.

Rummaging through his bookbag for his spare clothes he desperately hoped he had, Ron sighed in relief when he found his P.E. shorts. There was no extra shirt, but it was okay - he'd take marching in a regular shirt and workout shorts over marching in a workout shirt and regular bottoms any day. Ron changed hastily, not feeling as comfortable with Carl seeing him as he appeared to be with seeing Carl. He never had much self esteem, and never liked to be exposed in any way around others.

To Ron's luck and surprise, just as he'd finished changing, Carl cracked the bathroom door open and asked timidly, "Are you done?"

"Yeah," Ron said, his voice cracking. Carl was too cute - Ron couldn't figure out why he was so shy, but it was adorable to him.

Carl shuffled out of the bathroom in Ron's clothes. The pants fit fine, but the shirt that was usually so big on Ron fit around Carl's broad-shouldered frame perfectly, almost snugly.

Ron blushed.

"What now?" Carl asked, looking away from Ron and down to the floor. He almost seemed embarrassed.

"Now we go set up," Ron replied, grabbing his things and leading the way out of the dressing rooms and back to the band room. He held the door open for Carl and let him pass through.

"This is the fun part," Ron said, smiling as they came back into the band room. Alexandria High School's tiny marching band looked huge to Carl - everyone was bustling about, putting together instruments and gathering equipment. Huge xylophone-like instruments were being rolled in and out of storage closets - the pit. Hordes of girls were traveling in and out of the band room hauling flags and what seemed to be fake weaponry - the colorguard. Huge drums were being hoisted over people's shoulders and carried over their stomachs - the drumline. Members of the hornline - the wind instruments - were already playing, practicing, and warming up. Carl gazed across the entire room in wonder, his jaw hanging open so slightly. It was all so new - he'd been in concert band for years, but this was an entirely new kind of band to him. Ron giggled. This was the face anyone had when they saw the entirety of a marching band for the first time, but there was something about it on Carl that made it so cute.

"We're gonna get you a sousaphone," Ron said, Carl coming out of his trance and looking at him suddenly. His eyes seemed to light up. Apparently, he knew what a sousaphone was.

"Come on," Ron said, beckoning for them to move out of the doorway and towards the band director's desk. There was already a crowd of people around it - people paying band fees, guard kids complaining about broken this, pit kids complaining about broken that. The two waited until they could push their way towards the front of the desk to grab Kepler's attention.

"Carl wants to join marching band." He stated simply as Kepler began to pull out some forms. "I-I mean, right?" He asked, suddenly turning to Carl. His face began to heat up with embarrassment - he just remembered he'd asked Carl to 'watch to see if he liked it".  He hadn't even considered that Carl might not even want to join.

To his relief, Carl's reply was an eager "yeah, of course."

Kepler instructed the two to make their way outside with everyone else for now - Ron was to separate from the block to teach Carl the basics of marching, and as soon as he got those down, they'd give him a sousaphone.

Carl's eyes seemed to light up at every mention of the word 'sousaphone'. Ron smiled to himself. 'So cute...'

The interaction was interrupted by a shout.

"Band!"

"Sir!" Every student in the room, excluding Carl, shouted back to the command. Carl jumped - he was confused, and that was one of the loudest and most unexpected things that'd happened that day.

"We're going to make our way outside now," a girl in the center of the room, the same one who shouted 'band', began to speak. "Everyone gather your equipment and head to the driver's ed lot. And help the pit!" The regular bustle and noise returned to the room as she finished speaking, and people began making their way out the band room's doors leading to the outside. Ron left Carl's side to go retrieve his instrument case, but Carl followed him like a duckling.

Opening the case and popping his reed in his mouth, Ron was piecing the joints of his clarinet together when he noticed Carl looking up at him in confusion, blue eyes wide and gazing. Ron's stomach lurched a bit before he laughed nervously. "She says 'band', and we say 'sir'."

Carl cocked his head in adorable confusion, furrowing his brows.

"That's the drum major," Ron explained. "She's the leader of the band, she stands on this big podium in the front of the field and conducts." Carl nodded. "And when she says 'band' you just have to shout 'sir'. It's just a command to get our attention."

"Okay," Carl mumbled, smiling slightly. Ron smiled back. He liked the feeling of being able to show Carl around; to guide him.

Ron finished piecing his clarinet together, closing the case. The two made their way outside, following outside the rest of the hornline walking outside. Ron played quiet, airy notes to himself as he walked.

"What's the point of this?" Carl piped up suddenly, startling Ron into making a horrible squeaking noise on his instrument. Ron looked at Carl and felt himself lurch with anxiety and disappointment - did Carl dislike it that much already?

Ron's crestfallen reaction must have appeared on his face because Carl immediately spoke again.

"No no no, uh - I'm sorry." He laughed nervously. "That came out wrong - I mean, like, do you guys go to competitions or something?"

Ron breathed a sigh of relief and he laughed into a nervous smile. "Yeah, um... We get with the colorguard-"

"What's colorguard?"

Ron raised an eyebrow and laughed breathily. Carl was looking up at him with blue eyes wide and a curious expression. He was like a little kid asking every question they could come up with. Ron found it adorable.

"It's all those girls - I mean, there's boys too but the vast majority is girls - that were holding flags and fake weapons and stuff. They're basically dancers with props." Carl nodded as Ron continued. "So we get with the colorguard, pit and drumline -"

"What's pit and drumline?"

Ron and Carl both laughed.

"The pit is the instruments that can't be marched with, like mallet percussion and electrical instruments. And the drumline is the drums that can be marched, they hoist them onto their stomachs with harnesses they wear on their shoulders."

Carl simply nodded. Ron found it so funny - he was a total expert in concert band, but didn't know the first thing about marching.

"So we get with the guard, pit and drumline," Ron says, pausing as if to see if Carl had any more questions. They both chuckle. "And we put together a show, with both visuals and music. And then we go to competitions or do it during halftime at football games."

Carl nods. "Do you guys win?"

"No." The two both laugh at Ron's matter-of-fact attitude about their band's failure. "But like, we always come pretty close. The top five bands at the state competition go to finals, and we usually come pretty close, like top ten or so, but we haven't exactly made it yet."

"And the show this year is really good," Ron adds after a short silence. "It's gonna be about like, metal making or something. Like a blacksmith's workshop. I swear it had a cooler name, uh..."

"A foundry?" Carl interjects.

"Yes!" Ron shouts. "Yeah, it's called The Foundry. Thank you," he says, laughing. Carl chuckles too.

-

A/N  
sorry for the bad end but im cutting this chap in half cause its way too long

I HAVENT UPDATED IN SO LONG .... i took a hiatus cause im actually unable to march this season due to sum shit that happened & it made me really sad and kinda put me off from writing this fic ,, but updates should be regular as soon as i get back in the swing of things  
im so surprised even anyone is reading this omg , that's all really - tysm !!!!


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